Best Dark

Broken Angel:

The authors who are nominated for this category are all amazing
writers. In their stories, they deal with themes that are difficult to
read, and even harder to write. All of these stories are incredible,
well-written, and interesting, and I consider it a privelege to present this
award.

The nominees are:

Mulder's eyes were wide with shock, and he had turned quite pale. Shaking
his head he tried to back away from me, but I wound my hand in his tie and
dragged him back. "You're a sick, sick cunt Krycek. You're filth. Get out of
here....get away from me." he rasped. Gotcha! I thought. Let's wind you up a
bit more, Agent Mulder.

"I've got a lovely little knife, too. Sharp...pointed...clean as a scalpel.
Does he like the sight of your blood Mulder? A few little cuts in that silky
skin Fox was showing off in the club yesterday and we could watch it
dripping down his body. I could lick it off as I fuck him. I could carve my
name in his chest, leave some pretty scars, and then you'd belong to me too,
you would be marked as mine as well. He'd like that, wouldn't he Mulder? He
said he'd been waiting a long time to meet me; the little faggot wants to
take it any way I want to give it to him, he wants to be abused and he wants
you to be left with the pain and the humiliation while he gets the fun. Are
you going to let him, Mulder? Are you going to give him to me?"

"You disgust me, Krycek, you and your twisted fantasies," he spat at me,
struggling to pull his tie from my grasp. Suddenly he went completely still
and started gasping for air through his mouth. Then, in a different tone,
putting his hands on my chest and pushing hard, "Quick! Let me go...let me
go dammit.....I'm gonna puke"

I'd seen Mulder do that before, under stress. I dropped his tie like a hot
coal and leapt back from him as he made a dash for the toilet, but he'd only
got halfway across the room before it caught him and his stomach ejected its
contents onto the lounge floor. The foul stench and sounds of Mulder's
heaving followed me into the kitchen where I gathered up a glass of water
and a dampened towel to clean him up. When I returned Mulder was on his
hands and knees over the mess, panting like a dog, a string of drool
dangling from his mouth, and as I touched his shoulder I could feel him
trembling. "Sit up" I said, pulling back on him, and I offered him the
cloth. He sat back on his heels and took it from me, wiped his face and
reached for the water. After a couple of sips he spoke, his voice low and
quivery,

"You can have him, Krycek, you can have him and you can keep him. You're
what he deserves. Use him however you want, just keep the fuck away from me.
And if you leave any permanent marks on him, I swear I'll cut your balls
off. This is between you and him, I don't want any reminders of you filthy
hands on this body."

I'm witnessing something out of a nightmare, or a dream. I can't
seem to look away as Krycek opens the buttons on his fly and pulls
out his semi-erect cock. A short pull and he rubs the head against
Mulder's mouth.

Mulder opens his mouth and takes in Krycek's dick. A throaty growl
issues, but I'm not sure from who.

Krycek's looking down at Mulder, smiling. He holds Mulder's head
still and thrusts two, maybe three times before he pushes Mulder
away and steps back.

"Take off your pants," Krycek orders.

Mulder doesn't move. "I said take off your pants. I can just as
soon jack off over your dead partner's body." The casualness of
his remark sends a cold spike of fear through me.

I look to Mulder trying to share... reassurance? ...strength? But
his face is downcast. He's shaking his head slowly and I can't make
eye contact with him.

As Mulder starts to pull off his pants Krycek tells him,
"Underwear, too."

Mulder stands, looking up with murder in his eyes and humiliation
radiating off him as he tries to hide his erection.

He found the AD on the floor of his bathroom, pulsating blue veins
prominent over his face and hands.

"Oh shit!" He flipped open his phone as he knelt. "Don't worry, sir. I'll
get you some help,"

Mulder had barely punched in the first digit of 911 when Skinner's hand
reached out to stop him. "No," the man rasped. "Nothing...to do...leave..."
The hand flopped back, weakness overtaking him.

"Fuck," Mulder breathed, canceling the call. He took a deep breath, pulled
Krycek's matchbook out of his pocket and punched in the number written
there.

"Like what you see, Mulder?" said the hated voice out of the phone.

"Make it stop!"

"Okay."

Mulder kept his eyes on Skinner as the pulsating gradually slowed and the
veins disappeared. The AD sighed once before sinking into exhausted
unconsciousness.

"You can keep him healthy," Krycek whispered into his ear.

"What do you want?" Mulder asked rising, glaring around the room, looking
for an enemy.

"Be my whore, Mulder."

"Are you insane?" Mulder yelled. A moan from Skinner shifted his attention.
The pulsing veins were reappearing. "Nooo! Stop it, Krycek!" The pulsing got
stronger. Skinner writhed on the floor, pain evident on every part of him.

"Be my whore."

"I'll kill you!" Spittle dotted the phone and ricocheted back on his chin.

"That it was too fast and easy. He didn't deserve the mercy of a bullet in
the head." Krycek said coolly.

Mulder stared at him for a long, stunned moment, and then he went mad.

Hard knuckles connected with a dull thud as he hit Krycek across the room.
Krycek made no attempt to defend himself and only emitted muffled groans
when Mulder's shoes connected with his ribs and stomach, and hard fists
crunched into his jaw.

His only response to the assault was to try and tuck himself into a ball to
protect his more vulnerable parts. However, the way he was chained prevented
him from everything but spastic, convulsive, aborted movements. Krycek
acknowledged each hard punch and unrelenting blow with nothing more than a
soft grunt, his very passivity driving Mulder to even greater fury.

The silence of the night was torn apart by dark, bloody vengeance.

Krycek's breathing came in slow, heavy gasps, as if the very act of
squeezing air in and out of tortured lungs was too much of an effort.

Mulder stood above him, fists still clenched, trying to force back the
black killing hatred. He knew he was teetering on the brink of something he
would regret, but fury still sang through his blood demanding an outlet.

Taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart Mulder abruptly realized, to
his faint shock, that he was harder than he'd ever been, his cock throbbing
in time to the pounding of his pulse. He hesitated briefly, but then his
lips peeled back into a cold, pitiless smile.

Why not? Why the hell not? It wouldn't kill Krycek, but it would sure as
hell make him wish he were dead.

Reaching down he threw the limp and unresisting body across the table and
bent down to unlock the chain running from his handcuffs to the ankle cuffs,
kicking the long legs apart. Krycek laid very still, his arms still twisted
painfully up behind his back by the cuffs and the chain attached to it.
Mulder stared hungrily at the taut, graceful curve of the ass before him,
and finally admitted to himself what his unconscious had known since the
first time he'd laid eyes on his new, adoring, puppyish partner; he wanted
Alex Krycek.

Unzipping his pants, Mulder felt pre-cum already dripping from the head of
his cock, oh Christ, did he ever want this! Using his thumbs, he brutally
wrenched the ass cheeks open, fingers sliding inside the tight ring of
muscle.

Krycek flinched. He hadn't said a word while Mulder had beaten him half to
death, but now he raised his head slightly and whispered thickly, through
swollen lips, "No, please don't, Mulder. Please."

"Shut up!" Mulder backhanded him. Krycek's pleadings awarded him a fierce
satisfaction. *Finally*, he'd found the right way to break the little
cockroach. Still, he didn't want to listen to anything but the rush of
pleasure coursing through him, and pulling off his tie, he forced it between
Krycek's teeth, effectively gagging him.

Thrusting two fingers into the asshole, he laughed low in his throat,
bending over the prone body, biting into the inviting curve of the shoulder
hunched beneath him. Teeth breaking the skin, he tasted Krycek's blood on
his lips. "Enjoying yourself?" he mocked, listening with immense pleasure to
the soft incoherent sounds Krycek made, the writhing of tense muscles,
trying to hold off and expel the stubby, cruel fingers invading his body.

Pressing close, Mulder felt his cockhead flatten against the too small
opening. Frowning, he reached down again and ruthlessly loosened the muscle
more, using the warm slickness of the blood beginning to trickle between his
fingers as added lubrication.

Krycek's remaining hand opened and closed convulsively, but he didn't make a
sound.

The only answer was a soft moan through the gag as Krycek instinctively
tried to crawl away from the pain, from the thrusts that were splitting him
in two. Rough fingers, digging into his hips, pulled him back, held him in
place, and bent over the table; there was no leverage to resist. In the end,
because it was the least hurtful alternative, he raised himself slightly,
angling his hips to allow for better access, and rode out the dark red
agony, just as he'd done countless times before.

It wasn't fucking, it was raw violence in its most primitive form. It was
the domination, the hate-filled vengeance of one man on another for crimes
that sliced a heart and soul apart.